


Harvest

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Secret Santa 2006, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance visit to Jarno's vineyard forces Michael to realise some truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harvest

"What are you looking at? There is nothing to see."

Michael watches Jarno's approach in the window. The image is reflected with more clarity than depth. Outside, it is dark: the night presses in so deeply that only the faintest glimmer of illumination from within the room cuts across the pavement of the patio beyond the double layers of glass.

"I wasn't looking at anything," Michael says. He lets the curtain fall to hide the night, but he doesn't move away from the window.

Jarno makes a small noise, neither disbelief or amusement. "In the morning, you will see the most fantastic view. But at night, there is nothing. Just darkness."

"Not even the stars?"

"Those, too, you will see if the sky is clear. But tonight? I don't think so."

Michael smiles, the slightest twitch of his lips. Jarno sometimes has even less of a sense of humour than he does. "I thought the stars always shone."

"Who knows? They don't always shine for me. Perhaps for you. Things are always different for you." Jarno gives him a quizzical look and then tilts his head toward the long leather couches. "Come, taste my wine. See if you find it good."

Michael nods and follows Jarno across the room. As if by unspoken agreement, they sit at right angles to one another, on different couches. On the low table between them are two glasses and a bottle of Podere Castorani 2001, Jarno's first vintage. It came out of the cellars earlier in the evening and has been open, breathing, for half an hour. Jarno fussed about decanting it, but Michael said he wanted to try it from the bottle, the way he usually drinks wine.

He watches as Jarno pours with all the elegance of a sommelier. He supposes, in a way, that Jarno is a sommelier, but in a wine cellar of his own. He thinks it's clever of Jarno to find a second job outside of F1 that's both absorbing and profitable.

Michael has no such secondary occupation. Now he's left Ferrari, he finds himself at a loose end. A final road-trip through Italy before he settles into polite boredom brought him to the Abruzzo vineyards, high up in the hills where the landscape rolls and rolls until it drops into the sea; where dozens of shades of green compete for attention against the blue of the sky. It seemed perfectly natural for him to stop here.

Many of his former rivals and colleagues would no doubt find it odd that he's come to roost for a while with Jarno Trulli. Their paths rarely crossed in any professional sense. If they'd worked in a normal business, their trajectories might have brought them together once or twice – perhaps in the lifts or by the water-cooler. But there was nothing normal about their job.

Media coverage had made him aware of Jarno. A dogged, outstanding qualifier who rarely delivered in the race itself, Jarno was the typical mid-list runner: not too good, not too bad, worthy enough of Flavio's wandering interest but never a serious contender. To Michael, he was unexceptional on the track, so similar to half a dozen other also-rans.

It was his off-track personality that Michael found appealing. Like him, Jarno was a family man who liked the simple things in life. No matter that the simple things ranged from the same old Fiat car in which they'd both learned to drive, to large, secluded houses on mountaintops. Michael knew Jarno wasn't flash with his money. He admired that. Men from humble beginnings who suddenly came into money were either reckless or parsimonious. Jarno, like Michael, trod the fine line in between.

Michael lifts his glass when instructed to do so. He watches as Jarno inhales the wine, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. He watches, fascinated, as Jarno takes the first sip. He imagines the taste of wine on Jarno's tongue, dark liquid rolled across the palate to catch every subtlety from sweet notes to sour.

He half-wonders if Jarno will spit out that first mouthful, the way wine tasters do on television shows. Spit or swallow? The idea amuses him, and so Michael hurriedly buries his nose in his glass and takes a huge gulp.

The wine is a revelation. Full-bodied and elegant, it is nothing like the man sitting before him. Jarno at home is casual and scruffy, his hair curling at his nape and his jaw dark with stubble. His feet are pushed into a pair of old sandals. Michael observes this, and surreptitiously eases his own feet from handmade Italian shoes as he takes a second swig of wine.

Jarno looks at him. "What do you think?"

"It's easy to drink."

It is not the answer Jarno wanted to hear. He frowns. "I suppose that is a good thing. Have you no other comment?"

Michael finishes the remainder of the wine and holds out the glass. "Yes. Can I have some more?"

"Please," Jarno adds. He picks up the bottle and pours. "I am surprised. I thought you would treat wine the way you treat your driving. Actually, I thought you would treat everything the way you treat your driving."

"Is that what you do?"

Jarno shrugs, very Italian. "Of course. Everything must be one hundred percent. Otherwise, what is the point?"

Michael drinks again. This time, he appreciates it more. There's a structure to the wine that he hadn't noticed before. If he focuses, he can just about identify the different tastes transferred from the earth through the grape and into the wine. Or maybe he's just imagining things.

"If you do everything one hundred percent, you'll burn out," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He holds out his glass for another refill. "To make the most of life, you should choose only one thing to do one hundred percent. The rest can be done at eighty percent or lower."

Jarno pours. The bottle is more than half finished. He sips from his own glass and seems to think about Michael's words.

"I don't agree. You see, giving one hundred percent to everything is not difficult if you measure each need individually. For me, family is the most important thing. Then comes Formula One. After that, my friendships. After that, this vineyard. Then other things, less important maybe, but still I give them one hundred percent. It's like the harvest – you only get out of it what you put into it, no matter how the crop may grow."

Jarno lifts his glass and swirls the wine around inside it. "Everyone ranks parts of their life this way. Or they should. Otherwise, if you focus your one hundred percent just on one thing alone, what will happen to you when it goes away?"

Michael finishes his drink. "Like me, you mean."

"I did not say that." Jarno sounds contrite, although his face is impassive.

"I'll tell you what happens," Michael says. He sits forward and puts his glass on the table. He pushes it toward the bottle, the gesture careful. An empty stomach, drinking a rich wine too fast… he knows where this will end. "I'll get drunk, and then I'll forget that there's nothing left."

"Don't," says Jarno, putting his hand over the glass when Michael picks up the bottle. "This is not a wine to get drunk on."

Michael squints at the label. "Then what do you recommend?"

"You should never get drunk on wine. It shows disrespect."

"Surely it shows favouritism."

"Of course not." Jarno looks annoyed. "Only a fool would allow himself to get drunk on wine. You cannot appreciate nuance if the head is stuffed full of alcohol. If you want to get drunk, there's vodka in the fridge."

Michael stares at him. He wants to laugh, but he doesn't. He was hoping for a sympathetic response, some kind words from one driver to another, but Jarno is more concerned with the abuse of his wine. Chastened, Michael sways to his feet and wanders into the kitchen.

He finds the vodka and brings it back to the table. He pours a generous shot into his empty wineglass, enjoying the sniff of distaste from Jarno. When he drinks it, knocking it back in three gulps, the fiery cold makes his throat ache as if he'd spent too long grieving.

And perhaps he has.

Thoughtfully, Michael rubs the front of his neck. "We should go and look at the vines."

"In the morning."

"Now." Michael stands up. He wobbles and then steadies himself. He says it again for emphasis, still accustomed to a team who jump at his every word. "Now."

Jarno pours the rest of the bottle's contents into his own glass. "It is far to walk."

"We can drive."

Jarno purses his lips. "We have both been drinking."

"So? I doubt the Caba – Carab – the police will be patrolling this road."

"The Carabinieri are everywhere," Jarno says with a smile. "If you want to go, I will call a taxi."

* * *

The taxi turns up ten minutes later and reveals itself as sensible family saloon driven by an elderly man.

"My father," Jarno says by way of introduction.

Michael gets into the back seat and meets the inquisitive, dismissive gaze of the elder Trulli in the rear view mirror. He feels almost ashamed to be there, and so he lowers his head and stares out of the window at the darkness passing by.

When they arrive at the vineyard, Jarno's father mutters something too fast and accented for Michael to understand. Jarno shrugs, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. Michael hears his name mentioned, but Jarno doesn't look at him. It makes him feel excluded.

The mix of vodka and wine makes his head thump uncomfortably. Perhaps he'll feel better when he gets out of the car. Michael wrenches at the handle and is surprised, then panicked, when the door doesn't open.

Now Jarno looks back at him. "Child-lock," he explains.

The elder Trulli makes a noise that could be construed as a snort of laughter.

Jarno lets him out. Michael stands on the side of the road, watching the taillights of the car disappear from sight. The night air is warmer than he expected. He'd hoped for a cold breeze to clear his head. Instead, the warmth fuddles him even more. He takes deep breaths and puts his hands in his pockets.

"This way."

He follows Jarno to a gate set into a high wall. From his jacket pocket, Jarno takes a small flashlight and a key. He unlocks the gate and ushers Michael inside.

"Welcome to Podere Castorani," he says, a note of pride in his voice.

Michael says nothing. Already, he's regretting the impulse that brought them here. He can learn nothing from this place, or from this man. He was a fool to even think it.

They walk between the rows of vines. Jarno directs the flashlight, its tiny, bright beam swaying back and forth over the rich, turned soil. Above them, the leaves flutter in the night breeze. The ground smells damp and sour. Through the shifting black twists of foliage, Michael glimpses the shape of the coast, a distant twinkle of lights and a lifting haze separating the sea from the sky.

After a while of walking in silence, Jarno stops. He lowers the beam of the flashlight to the ground, turns, and asks, "Why did you come here?"

"To see the vineyard," Michael says.

"You would see more in the morning."

They are standing too close together, beneath the rustling leaves and tendrils. The hushing whisper of the vines is eerie. Michael imagines he's pursued by some nameless horror of the night. He looks around, seeing only the white-silver starkness of the flashlight catching on fallen leaves, the bases of poles, and lumps of soil. He moves closer to Jarno as if by instinct.

"Sometimes I think we're alike," he says, his voice barely a whisper above the breeze. "But people understand you where they don't understand me."

"You don't want to be understood," Jarno says, as if it's obvious. "Why should you care? Does your private life make you a better driver? I don't think so. My life has no impact on the wine. The vines would grow whether I was a good man or an evil man."

"There should be some morality in F1."

"Maybe." Jarno shrugs. "But perhaps they only elected you to the head of the driver's council because of the irony of the situation. You will forgive me for not believing in morality and politics. Italians have a history of the two being uneasy bedmates. Where there is money and power, so there is corruption."

Michael is astonished. "You think I'm corrupt?"

"I think you're a cheat. But you know, the only person you cheat is yourself, because by your own admission you do not do everything one hundred percent."

Michael scrabbles for a response, but cannot find one. Instead, he takes a step forward and kisses Jarno full on the mouth.

He doesn't know why he does it. Like all acts of drunkenness, it seems like a good idea in that moment. Perhaps he does it in an effort to show that they are alike. Perhaps he does it to elicit sympathy, or some other kind of response. Or perhaps he does it just to taste again, in faint, lingering echo, the rich sweetness of the wine.

Jarno does not push him away. He waits, unmoving, for the kiss to end. "See?" he says when Michael moves back. "You cheat yourself. That was not one hundred percent, either."

"You want one hundred percent? Then try this."

Michael kisses him again, harder this time, more passionate. He forces Jarno's lips apart and plunges his tongue between them, demanding a response.

He does not get one. Humiliated, he pulls away.

Jarno wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "The vintage is not to my taste," he says gently.

Michael feels shame burn at him. "You told me that a man only gets out of life what he puts into it," he says. "Like the harvest, you said. So why…"

"Because, sometimes, the harvest fails and the crop is blighted." Jarno tries to smile. "It is not your fault. These things happen."

Silence falls. The darkness is a chasm growing ever wider between them.

Eventually, Jarno clears his throat. He waves toward the gate. "Let's go."

Michael shakes his head. "I want to stay here a little longer."

Jarno hesitates and then passes him the flashlight. "Very well."

Michael waits until he can no longer hear the soft mulching sound of Jarno's footsteps through the soil of the vineyard. Only then does he move, walking to the end of the row of vines to emerge in an open space on the side of the hill.

He switches off the flashlight and sits down on the ground. He thinks it would be nice to sit here until dawn, when the details would come back into the vines and the world around him would take new shape in the coming daylight. Yes, he decides: everything will become clear in the morning.


End file.
